


this year's love had better last

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Developing Friendships, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Happy Quentin, M/M, Pining, for once in this goddamn show, fuck the finale i say, in this house we build our own canon now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: “Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot asks, just to be sure, just to catch his attention and hold it forever, possibly, just to fill out the air buzzing around them.Quentin nods, mumbling an incoherent string of sounds.“I’m Eliot,” he says, and puts out his cigarette, drops down from the school sign. “You’re late.”Under his assessing gaze, Quentin is obliviously still looking around, and Eliot finds his lost lamb-ness strangely endearing.This year just might turn out to be interesting, after all.*or, the one where Fillory isn't real and a world of problems is avoided, Quentin still finds his way to Brakebills, Eliot still falls in love. Destiny is bullshit, but some things are constants.





	this year's love had better last

**Author's Note:**

> look, this is absolutely an indulgent AU where nothing hurts except for the pining, but that's par for the course. I just wanted them to be happy, but apparently, that's too much to ask of canon, so here.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this too

It’s in the early days of Fall, where the leaves are still green and safely tucked in their trees and pumpkin hasn’t quite taken over the season yet, that Dean Fogg hands Eliot a white card with a name and tells him to show the first year around, and in the interest of keeping up the Physical Kids parties reputation, Eliot squints critically at the name written in black ink and magnanimously agrees.

 

How thoughtful of him, really. Eliot remembers being guided by an utterly bored, utterly boring student on his first day. Now, to have Eliot as a guide– this  _ Quentin Coldwater  _ has lucked out twice already. In a way, at least.

 

So he drapes himself over the Brakebills sign, lights a cigarette and contemplates the sky, the season, the still-green leaves, and a whole lot of nothings, and waits. Somewhere across campus, Margo is already showing her first year to the building because  _ her  _ first year isn’t late, he saw them walking past him a few minutes ago, and Eliot watched with disinterested jealousy as her own boring task slips away faster than his.

 

Eliot waits and smokes, and when  _ Quentin Coldwater  _ stumbles out of the woods, clutching his bag’s strap like a lifeline, eyes darting around in such sincere  _ wonder–  _ Eliot thinks  _ oh. _

 

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot asks, just to be sure, just to catch his attention and hold it forever, possibly, just to fill out the air buzzing around them. 

 

Quentin nods, mumbling an incoherent string of sounds.

 

“I’m Eliot,” he says, and puts out his cigarette, drops down from the school sign. “You’re late.”

 

Under his assessing gaze, Quentin is obliviously still looking around, and Eliot finds his lost lamb-ness strangely endearing. 

 

This year just might turn out to be interesting, after all.

 

*

 

It’s mid-season and Quentin did get in, placed in the Physical Kids Cottage along with the pretty blonde he seems to be always trailing after. At this point, Eliot is surprised they’re not fucking yet, but in the business of not dwelling too long in the matter of Quentin’s painful straightness, he opts to be selfishly glad.

 

_ What’s it with you and the flavor of the month,  _ Margo had asked nearly a month ago, and Eliot had given her a superficial non-answer at the time, unwilling to admit there’s something bright and tempting in Quentin that just calls for Eliot’s attention. But that was then and this is now, and Margo has since given up on questioning Eliot’s reasons and simply adopted their dorky first year in their fold.

 

Part of him wonders if Margo’s readiness to accept Quentin has something to do with the other half of his package deal– well, the other-other half, since Julia also seems to be a vaguely permanent presence at his side, but it’s Alice that catches Margo’s eyes.

 

“Ten bucks says they’ll fuck in Brakebills South,” Margo says one day over the brim of her glass, and Eliot follows her gaze to find Quentin and Alice bent over a book in the living room couch. There’s nothing particularly bitter about the way she said it, but Eliot knows better, even if it’s the first time he’s seeing her stay fixed in someone like this. It might be easy for him to see, perhaps, because of the mirrored way it must show on his own face, to her at least. There’s no precedent on this for him either. “Earlier, even.”

 

Eliot thinks of the Trials, fast approaching. “If they get paired in the spell, maybe,” he allows, carefully keeping anything from his voice too, but still watching the way Quentin laughs and Alice shyly tucks her hair behind her ears. They do make an attractive couple, he supposes, in the sensible way most stories go. “I’m not sure I’ll take you up on this bet, Bambi.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she falls against his chest with a sigh and Eliot wraps his arms around her, presses a kiss into her hair. It’s just like them, really, to manage to catch these pesky feelings at the same time, over the same set of people. Misery does love company, it turns out.

 

“Why would you be?” Eliot replies, floating up a wine bottle for them to share. Nothing like good alcohol and the promising prospect of a party later on to distract them from this little hiccup in their good judgment. “Here, nothing to be sorry for after drinking this.”

 

She drinks it straight from the bottle and Eliot nods in approval– this feels like an appropriate evening for foregoing glasses, and out of the corner of his eyes, he catches Quentin looking. Eliot raises the bottle in a salute, and Alice frowns disapprovingly at their day drinking. 

 

“We do love those,” Margo sighs.

 

Quentin still smiles, though.

 

*

 

It’s the start of winter and the cold weather is beginning to seep in even here, even in Brakebills, and Eliot revels in missing his morning classes, staying in bed until the sun has warmed the Cottage into something less reminiscing of Brakebills South.

 

The walk down to the Cottage’s kitchen feels oddly like a walk of shame, even though there’s barely anyone around at this hour, and Eliot shakes his head, amused at himself.

 

“Coffee?”

 

The voice startles him, Eliot hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone, and he wonders when did Quentin learn to blend in so well into the background. “Yes, please,” he answers on semi-automatic, busy taking in the messy kitchen and the messy Quentin standing in the middle of it. There are books scattered around the table and a notebook with a giant coffee stain next to them, and when Quentin moves into the light, Eliot can see the shadows under his eyes and the ink smudges on his hands. Eliot wants to gather him in his arms and wrap him in blankets– this is seriously getting ridiculous, the wet dreams were definitely easier to deal with. Instead, he asks, “did you stay up all night studying?”

 

Quentin shrugs, seemingly unsure if he should be apologetic or not. “I– maybe. I have a quiz later, I’m not– I was revising,” he hands Eliot a mug, his forehead creasing a little in the way it does when Quentin frowns without realizing. “But hey, did you– do you know what happened to the toaster?”

 

As a matter of fact, Eliot does know what happened to the toaster.  _ Eliot and Margo after a night in London _ two days ago happened to the toaster. They had been spectacularly, deliciously drunk and decided to try to make the toaster run with magic instead of electricity. You know, in favor of the general cause of saving the environment and fleeting, unshakable curiosity. 

 

The toaster had not survived their attempts.

 

“No,” he lies, sitting down on the closest chair and making an effort not to add anymore spills into the notebook’s already impressive collection. “Perhaps Todd broke it?”

 

“Maybe,” says Quentin, dubiously, because he has not yet cottoned on the fun of shifting the blame into an unsuspecting Todd. “Also, we’re somehow out of bread? How– actually, who’s doing groceries? I’ve never seen anyone buy things but there’s always stuff in the fridge– should we, should  _ I  _ be contributing? That’s– whatever. Somehow there’s no bread anymore, maybe that’s why the toaster is gone.”

 

With a subtle flicker of his wrist, a pile of takeout containers someone left in the sink falls to the trash can, hiding the copious amounts of toasts Eliot and Margo had burned down to a crisp after trying to make toast with magic since the toaster was no longer working. “I have no idea what happened to all the bread,” Eliot tells him with an innocent face. The coffee burns his tongue, but he doesn’t flinch. “What I do know is that you are in desperate need of a break, Q.”

 

Like a bursting balloon, Quentin deflates with a noisy sigh, collapsing in the chair across Eliot. Somewhere inside his ribcage, something aches. He reaches to pat Quentin’s hand in silent comfort. “Maybe you’re right,” Quentin mumbles, rubbing at his eyes before something seems to occur to him. “Wait, don’t  _ you  _ have classes now?”

 

Eliot shrugs disinterestedly.

 

“How come I  _ never  _ see you or Margo in class,  _ ever?”  _ He continues, head tilting like an adorably confused puppy, squinting, “I’ve seen even  _ Todd  _ already– do you guys even attend lectures?”

 

They do, of course. Taking mandatory attendance loosely, of course. And studying in hidden nooks of the library and behind closed doors of his bedroom, of course. Eliot could tell Quentin that,  _ of course.  _ “Now, where would be the fun in that?” But it’s so much more fun to let him go on thinking of them as sort of cryptids. And Quentin does look pretty with that suspiciously bewildered look on his face.

 

“I,” Quentin shakes his head, huffing a laugh, and the line of his shoulders no longer looks about ready to snap. A small victory, if Eliot says so himself. “Nevermind. I think I’m gonna get some sleep– there’s more milk in the fridge, by the way.”

 

It suddenly dawns on Eliot that the coffee he’s drinking already has, in fact, milk. And sugar, just how he likes it.

 

“Thanks,” he says faintly, watching Quentin nod and haphazardly gather his things, pens and papers spilling out of his arms. “You know, you  _ are  _ one of us, Q. You could work on levitating spells.”

 

As the books and fallen pencils all float up at Eliot’s command, a shadow flickers behind Quentin’s eyes. “Not really, don’t have a Discipline, remember?”

 

“Nonsense,” Eliot shushes him, lets Quentin take over the spell, “you are here, aren’t you? You’re in the Physical Kids Cottage, therefore, you are a Physical Kid.”

 

“That’s not how–”

 

He lifts a finger, Quentin falls quiet. “Nap first,” he tells him theatrically stern, “existential crisis, later–  _ much  _ later. After your mid-thirties, preferably.”

 

It brings a laugh out of Quentin, and Eliot smiles, chest growing tight and warm like summer is blooming early around his heart.

 

*

 

It’s the middle of winter, nearing the turning point of the season where temperatures will begin dropping less and less and snow won’t be a permanent feature, but for now, Brakebills is blanketed in white in a way that Upstate New York has no business being and Eliot has a sort-of boyfriend.

 

Mike is– he’s Mike. He’s a warm, pleasant distraction that Eliot finds easier and easier to keep around. He’s funny and charming and refined, and he likes Eliot, gives him his undivided attention, kisses him like he means all his sweet nothings.

 

Not that Eliot believes him just quite yet, but– he  _ could,  _ in time.

 

There’s disappointed jealousy in Margo’s eyes and she refuses to like Mike, which is not fair at all because Margo had her fair share of distractions after Quentin and Alice upgraded from emotionally-stunted fuckbuddies to officially a Thing a few weeks ago. 

 

She has Ibiza, and Madrid, and London, and the Naturalists parties, and Rio, and Eliot has Mike.

 

_ I only have one Bambi,  _ he had reassured her, and he meant it. No one could ever replace Margo’s place on his heart, not even Quentin– she was the first person Eliot learned to love and there’s no erasing that; Margo’s his Bambi, that’s all.

 

Still, Mike is the closest thing he has to a boyfriend and he thinks he could learn to love him too, with time, so when Margo sighs long-suffering and weary but thaws her cold stare to allow Mike into their little group, Eliot smiles brilliantly and kisses her forehead,  _ thank you. _

 

Maybe she’ll never quite warm up to Mike, maybe she’ll keep thinking it’s a mistake, but compromises are compromises and Eliot opens a portal to their favorite bar in Amsterdam over the weekend– Margo grins and kisses his cheek.

 

All is forgiven.

 

*

 

It’s the end of winter and the Woof Fountain is cracking, melting under the fine frozen surface. The pale sunlight hits the ice and turns the crystals in tiny rainbows every once in a while and it’s surprisingly mesmerizing to watch the ice fracture bit by bit.

 

Eliot isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting at the bench, smoking a cigarette and listening to the splintering noises behind him, but it’s long enough that morning classes are dismissed and students start to filter out, eagerly running off towards their houses and portals.

 

Among them, there is Quentin and there is Alice– although, interestingly enough, there’s no  _ Quentin-and-Alice.  _ They walk close, but the awkwardness around them is not the  _ we-just-had-sex-oh-my-god-i’m-sorry-you-heard-it-didn’t-you  _ that usually lingers. 

 

_ Don’t be foolish,  _ Eliot tells himself. This means nothing.

 

Quentin spots him first, raising a hand to wave but deciding against it halfway and clumsily lowering it again, settling on a smile before turning to tell Alice something. She doesn’t frown, only nodding jerkily and making a sharp left in the direction of the Cottage.

 

“Hey,” Quentin says, a bit out of breath as he stops in front of Eliot with an undignified high pile of books on his arms. “What are you doing here?”

 

The late morning light is hitting Quentin’s eyes in the exact angle to turn them into that lovely chocolate color, honeyed with warmth, and now it’s Eliot’s turn to be breathless. To stall, he blows a puff of smoke, shapes it into a bunny and lets it run a lap before dissolving in Quentin's face. “Spending time  _ not  _ in the Cottage,” he finally answers, “I wouldn’t recommend going inside just yet. A few third years have decided to try their hand at transfiguration. It’s been going as well as expected.”

 

“Oh no, Alice– she’s on her way there,” Quentin frowns, charmingly worried, eyebrows knitting, and his books sway with him. 

 

“No need for that, between all of us, I’m sure Alice is the most capable one to defend herself against a half-tiger, half-chair.” Besides, the thought of Alice Quinn, hands on her hip and armed with her self-righteous fury lecturing some cocky third-years on how not to fuck up spells is endlessly funny. It serves them right, he thinks. 

 

“Oh,” he says again, conceding the point, and shuffles a little. “So, uh. Not a good idea to go back for a while?”

 

“Probably not,” Eliot half-smiles, putting out his cigarette and waiting amusedly for Quentin to finish his thought.

 

“Then, lunch?” Quentin asks, followed by more self-conscious shuffling. 

 

For a moment, Eliot considers declining. He thinks of Mike, off to Portland in a work trip for the next couple of days, and he thinks of Margo shaking her head infuriatingly knowing, and he thinks of his own breathlessness just a few minutes ago. It would be, perhaps, the kinder, better choice to say  _ no. _

 

“Then, lunch,” he agrees, getting to his feet and claiming half of Quentin’s books.

 

_ Oh, well.  _ Eliot has never been very good at being kind to himself.

 

*

 

It’s spring and the days are warming up, color blooming around the lawns and bushes and even the accidental, occasionally cared for, tiny garden in the Cottage’s backyard. Eliot’s not sure the marigolds will survive the summer.

 

It’s also Spring Break, and the campus is blessedly empty, with only a few scattered students still hanging around, no drawn-out lectures or dull homework to get through. Normally, Eliot would have been the first to step through a portal with Margo, ready to lose himself in the best possible ways, but this year is– things are different.

 

For one, Margo is upstairs, having a crisis over her wardrobe and pretending it’s not because Alice asked her where she bought the tacos from last week and somehow got roped up into showing the twitchy little bird around New York.  _ Good for her,  _ Eliot thinks, although he hasn’t made up his mind yet how he feels about the latest Quentin-Alice break up.

 

It  _ is  _ a travesty that nearly six months in and Alice has not taken a tour around the real New York, though.

 

Maybe, and this is perhaps the wildest thing to date, so he’s taking it with a grain or two of salt, but  _ maybe,  _ they have changed a bit, too. Eliot does have a boyfriend now– a boyfriend that has a steady job, and pay taxes, and drinks moderately, perfectly reasonable amounts, and who has parents he wants Eliot to meet someday  _ soon,  _ and for some unfathomable reason seems to genuinely like Eliot even after learning the Sparknotes about Indiana.

 

“When did this happen,” he muses out loud, leaning against the railing and taking a swing from his flask.

 

“When did what happen?” Quentin asks, sounding mildly alarmed, and Eliot doesn’t bother turning around, waits until Quentin quits hovering at the doorway and joins him in the porch, tentatively hopping up to sit on the railing. “So, hm. Something happened?”

 

_ Yes, we grew up, how dreadful.  _ “Not yet,” Eliot says, looking up at the sky. From here, they could see the sun and the tree line and if it weren’t for the multitude of spells keeping Brakebills separated from the rest of New York, the countless grey buildings, probably. “But something might– Margo has her eyes set on your, well,  _ ex- _ girlfriend. Sorry, that came out harsher than I intended.” 

 

There was supposed to be a question there but it got lost somewhere between his thoughts and leaving his mouth, and Eliot kind of chickened halfway and overcompensating for that isn’t the smoothest way to choose words. Still, there’s a question hidden in the middle.  _ Can you find it, Q? _

 

He gets an answer in return– not the one he had been expecting because you have to know the question in order to expect something about the answer. That being said,  _ “oh thank god,”  _ is still fairly shocking as far as responses go, “I wanted to talk to you about this sooner, but it wasn’t my secret to tell– and, and Alice was being so stubborn about this, you know? I told her,  _ I told her,  _ to go for it, but she wouldn’t listen and I’ve never been more stressed in my life– El, she kept chickening out every fucking time and I–  _ it’s been weeks!” _

 

“I don’t– you’re not upset?”

 

Quentin laughs. 

 

“I was upset, yeah,” he shrugs, fiddling with the end of his long sleeves, “but then I was relieved, to be honest. We– Alice and I, we’re not very good at being together? I– that’s not. We work better as friends. Besides, it wasn’t really fair to anyone to keep, uh, dragging out something that was clearly over. And she’s been crushing so hard on Margo, it’s– it’s kind of sweet, actually? I don’t know, we were thinking of starting a club for bisexual disasters. There would be t-shirts involved.”

 

So much to unpack there.  _ So much,  _ like,  _ wow–  _ Eliot decides to wrap it all up and zip the suitcase back closed, to be dissected at a later date, preferably without Quentin’s soft, earnest eyes catching all of Eliot’s attention and sending his heart into a spiral on his chest. 

 

“As Margo’s best friend, I have to ask,” Eliot settles on the easier route, the one that doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Quentin is– that he  _ isn't –  _  “because if Alice’s only using her to rebound–”

 

“Oh, no, no,” Quentin nearly falls off his perch in his rush to stop Eliot’s train of thoughts, gripping the banister with white-knuckles to stay upright. “She’s not– Alice really likes her, there’s no  _ rebounding,  _ or second best, or anything like that. Margo’s the real deal for her, you know?”

 

Yes, yes, Eliot  _ knew _ which is exactly why he had to ask. “In that case, I’m happy for them and their cute Taco Tuesday date.”

 

“Are you giving them your blessing?” Quentin’s eyebrows raise and amusement spills from his smile like sunshine after rain.

 

“I’m being a concerned friend, that’s all.”

 

“I know,” Quentin’s smile gentles, tugging at Eliot’s every heartstring and making his ribcage constrict painfully because he sounds as if he means it in the honest, unadulterated way only Quentin could ever be.

 

Eliot clears his throat. 

 

“Anyway. Are you sure you’re okay with this new development, Q?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, without missing a beat, “I really am. As I said, it’s been over even before we broke up. It’s fine, I’m happy for them too.”

 

There’s something in his voice, though, that nags at Eliot’s mind, but he shakes the thought off, slips it into the stack of things not to obsess over right now, and simply passes Quentin his flask even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, only beginning to tip towards evening, and Quentin doesn’t always partake in day drinking as often as Eliot does. 

 

“Thanks,” Quentin murmurs, taking a big swing before handing the flask back, and his hair falls in his face like it always does, and Eliot sighs inwardly like he always does in response. “Hey, so. I’ve been talking to Julia and she thinks– I mean, that’s not. Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

 

“Q,” Eliot shifts, turning fully to look at Quentin, frowns at his tone, wishes he could erase the worried crease on his forehead, “come on, what’s going on?”

 

“No, it’s fine, really. And it’s not about Alice and Margo, either, don’t worry. Julia’s wrong anyway, there’s no point.”

 

Eliot wants to argue, press him for details, remind Quentin that Julia is an irritatingly exceptional Knowledge student and thus, is rarely wrong, but his phone goes off with a text, reminding him he has to hurry if he wants to make it in time to his date with Mike in fifteen minutes.

 

“I have to meet Mike now,” he explains slowly, studying Quentin’s face for any signs he would not be okay on his own, “but we’ll talk later, when I get back, alright?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Right, you should– I’ll be fine. Have uh, have fun on your date?”

 

The last part is said in his usual awkward, cringing self and Eliot can’t help the rush of fondness even as he walks back in the Cottage. With one last look behind him, Eliot leaves Quentin in the porch, silhouetted by a halo of sunlight and Spring.

 

*

 

It’s a little after the halfway mark on the season when the world is blooming in color and the breeze is a light perfume that Mike finally breaks up with him. 

 

_ Do you honestly see a future with us in it, Eliot? With me?  _ Mike had asked looking worn out and heartbroken, and Eliot had never wanted so badly to say  _ yes  _ but– his eyes must betray the hesitation inside his chest and Mike has enough of an answer.  _ I’m not a consolation prize, I deserve better than to be someone else’s second choice. _

 

And how could Eliot argue with that? 

 

He lets him go and selfishly doesn’t apologize, watching Mike leave with a sort of dispassionate emptiness. His world turns a little grey at the edges, dulled with an aching sadness, but it’s not off-kilter.

 

Mike is gone and Eliot– Eliot’s not nearly as heartbroken as he wishes.

 

* 

 

It’s summer and spring has slipped away to give space to higher and higher temperatures. The heat is merciless and the sun is barely even in the sky when Eliot wakes up, too uncomfortable with the too warm weather to go back to sleep.

 

The Cottage is still stuffy even after he opens every window and door of his bedroom, so he admits defeat and takes a shower, climbing down to the kitchen once he’s done with his hair still dripping and his polo shirt sticking to his back.

 

He doesn’t expect to find anyone else awake at this hour, and yet–

 

_ “Oh,”  _ Alice breathes, looking up at him like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Eliot thinks  _ too early, too early, too early,  _ but it’s also too  _ late,  _ so he steps into the kitchen pretending the air isn’t suddenly awkward. “Good morning,” she offers.

 

“Morning,” he nods, making a beeline for the fridge and taking out the orange juice he saw Todd hiding behind the milk yesterday. Resisting the urge to look for his flask, Eliot forces himself to sit at the table with a polite smile. Margo likes her, it’s the least Eliot can do, and besides, he can’t fault her for falling in the same rabbit hole as him. If anything, Eliot should be asking her for tips on how to dig himself out. “Early morning or late night?” 

 

Alice twitches, eyes darting at him and away, back down to her mug, but her lips quirk into what resembles a small smile. “I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she explains with a shrug, “and didn’t want to wake Margo up, so.”

 

Now, his smile turns more genuine. To be honest, Eliot had been a little wary of their relationship, in the beginning, always hovering in the periphery of things, worried Alice didn’t feel half as much as Margo did, but– he sees it now, he really does. Alice is still a bit too uptight, and twitchy, and not too comfortable around Eliot, but it’s in the little things that show– the concessions, the smiles, the  _ I didn’t want to wake Margo up _ s. 

 

“Well, cheers, then,” Eliot raises his glass in salute and Alice clinks her mug against it amusedly, clearly recalling Todd labeling the orange bottle with his name yesterday. He winks at her and she laughs. 

 

It’s in the little things, you see.

 

“What, uh, what about you?” Alice asks, adjusting her glasses. “I’ve never seen you up so early.”

 

With a theatrical groan, Eliot leans back on his chair, “it’s too hot upstairs! Impossible to stay in bed! It’s a disaster– there goes my beauty sleep.”

 

“A tragedy, truly,” she agrees, mockingly serious, and her eyes gleam with mischief he hadn’t realized could spark there.  _ Hmm,  _ yes, perhaps he sees how she could work with Margo. “Would knowing Q is due to come back from his pastries run anytime now help lift your spirits?”

 

A whole minute ticks by while Eliot stares at Alice, frantically searching for the right words for an answer that wouldn’t come off defensively rude or desperately indifferent until she takes pity on him. “Eliot,” she says, smiling gently, _ “I’m not blind.  _ And I also don’t mind,” Alice adds, meeting his eyes head on, bolder than he’s seen her in–  _ ever,  _ perhaps. “I’m in love with Margo and– I like to think we’re friends.”

 

_ Friends don't let friends drink Long Island Iced Tea,  _ he recalls with a tentative grin of his own. 

 

“So, the point I’m trying to make is– don’t be stupid,” she sips her coffee primly as if giving out love advice at the crack of dawn is a thing she regularly does, and hey, for all that Eliot knows, it might as well be. It’s not like he’s ever awake at this hour. 

 

But wherever else their conversation is idling to go, it gets abruptly cut off by the sound of the Cottage’s front door opening and closing and Quentin stumbling inside, paper bags gathered in his arms like precious cargo.

 

“Oh, hey, you’re up early,” he  _ grins,  _ his whole face lighting up and bringing the sun inside with him and setting Eliot on fire. The bags are set on the counter and Quentin starts to unload them, oblivious to it all. “A blueberry muffin, a croissant, and a soy latte macchiato for you and Margo as requested,” he hands Alice a box and a paper cup, “bagels and a latte for me,” another box is set aside, and then Quentin is looking up at Eliot again, holding the last plastic box towards him victoriously, “scones and chocolate chip cookies– which is terrible breakfast food, I know, but you said they were your favorites, and they were  _ there,  _ so I figured  _ why the fuck not,  _ you know?”

 

Eliot takes the box numbly, carefully peering inside to find exactly what Quentin had listed, but his brain loops uncomprehendingly around the concept. “How did you know–” He trails off, unsure how to end the question.

 

“I didn’t know you were already up, I was gonna leave it here and hope for the best, to be honest,” Quentin shrugs, snickering at his own idea, like that would make it any less thoughtful, like Eliot could think any less of it. 

 

_ How did you know it was my favorite  _ is what he truly wanted to ask, he realizes.

 

“Thank you,” he says honestly, swallowing around a lump he hadn’t noticed forming on his throat.

 

Quentin ducks his head, smiling.

 

A bit of rustling at his left reminds him they’re not alone and Eliot shouldn’t work himself up over every little crumb of affection, but the look Alice throws him as she takes her and Margo’s breakfast upstairs is pointed and sharp. To Quentin, she gives a different sort of glare over the kitchen counter. 

 

Eliot is not sure what to make of any of this.

 

Not that it matters, of course, as Quentin is soon launching into a story about his trip to the nearest coffee shop and Eliot eats his scones and listens, listens, listens, watching the rising summer sun filtering through the window and reflecting off Quentin’s eyes.

 

It’s in the little things, alright, and he wants to know them by heart.

 

*

 

It’s Autumn again and Eliot is smoking on top of the Brakebill’s stone sign, watching the clouds slowly paint the sky in shades of grey and pondering on the past year. He watches the tree line with an almost nostalgic feeling, catching himself expecting Quentin to come bumbling out of the woods and crashing headfirst into magic and Eliot’s life and a whole new world for him, for  _ both  _ of them, if Eliot’s being honest for once in his life.

 

“I’m having a deja vu,” Quentin announces and for a second Eliot wholeheartedly agrees, but there’s no mistaking  _ this  _ Quentin for past-Quentin, and it’s not just his hair– shorter, less tangled, hiding less of his eyes– or the lack of his messenger bag. This time around Quentin is smiling at Eliot and leaning against the stone sign, none of the nervous ticks he gets around other people, only his usual earnest, open self– and Eliot’s heart skips so many beats at the idea of how much trust is there for Quentin to give Eliot unrestricted access like this. Doesn’t he know by now? Eliot shouldn’t be trusted with breakable things,  _ Q, don’t you know?  _

 

“Careful,” Eliot says around his cigarette, knowing fully well his eyes are doing enough smiling on their own, “Dean Fogg might hear you and decide to stick you with the Psychs and then where would you be? Penny just might murder you in your sleep if you room with him again.”

 

“Yeah, it’s too late for that now,” Quentin says, carelessly happy to let the words spill, “turns out I really am where I belong.”

 

“You got your Discipline?” The surprise in his voice is impossible to mask, but Eliot knows Quentin hears the genuine happiness along with it.

 

“Yup,” he grins, excited and bright, impossibly gold in a greying season, “it’s nothing flashy, but– “his grin goes impossibly wider and how overwhelming it is to be smiled at fully by Quentin Coldwater. Eliot had been doomed from the start, really. “Repair of Small Objects.”

 

“You’re a Physical Kid,” Eliot tells him with a proud grin of his own.

 

“I’m a Physical Kid,” Quentin agrees.

 

“I told you belonged here,” he allows himself a second to be soft in disguise of being smug. 

 

“You did,” Quentin agrees again, suspiciously mellow about it, and then goes on overly casual, “but in hindsight, that’s kinda obvious. You’re here, after all– where else would I belong?”

 

Eliot’s heart stops beating, stops being,  _ stops– “Q,”  _ he sits up, pauses, lost as to how to explain how terrifyingly bad Eliot could fuck this up if Quentin means what Eliot thinks he means, how fear is seizing up his bones in an unshakeable grip and clenching Eliot’s jaw shut, grinding down any words that might be brave enough to try and escape past his lips.

 

_ “El,”  _ Quentin counters softly, slipping between Eliot’s legs and resting his hands in Eliot’s knees, and Eliot is sure he must be burning hand-shaped holes into his jeans. He looks at Eliot and he’s still smiling and he’s still the brightest, most beautiful thing in any room and Eliot– he’s  _ terrified.  _ “If you don’t want this, if you don’t want  _ us  _ to be a thing, that’s okay, really, nothing has to change, but, uh– this is me, choosing this, choosing  _ you _ . Sorry, I had to tell you or I would go  _ insane,  _ you know? I’m so in love with you, and you’re one of my best friends, and I don’t want to fuck this up, but– Julia thinks– she wouldn’t leave it alone, she says you’re in love with me too, and I– yeah. I wanted to believe in that so bad.”

 

There are so many ways this could blow up in their face, so many reasons Eliot should walk away, stop this before it wrecks  _ everything,  _ but Eliot is only human, and isn’t human nature to be selfish? He’s not strong enough–  _ fuck that,  _ he doesn’t  _ want  _ to be strong enough to turn Quentin down, turn his shot at something great, at the kind of love he’s only ever allowed himself to wonder about at the dead of night and inside his thoughts.

 

_ Don't be stupid. _

 

So instead, he tells himself to be brave and reaches for Quentin with shaking fingers and his heart on his sleeves, says, “haven’t you learned already, Julia is rarely wrong,” and Quentin grins, grins,  _ grins, _ leans up, and Eliot meets him halfway. “How could I  _ not  _ fall in love with you, Q?” He whispers against Quentin’s lips, drawing Quentin closer,  _ closer,  _ deeming every inch between them an unforgivable crime, “I love you, of course I love you,” Eliot says, feels Quentin wrapping his arms around his waist and shivering against his chest, “I met you and I loved you, and I’ll have you for as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Quentin kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

 

“Forever, then,” he decides, and means it.

 

“Forever, then,” Eliot agrees, and  _ hopes.  _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> and hey! Thanks for reading, and you can send me prompts or come talk to me about this show on [my tumblr.](https://rad-hoodd.tumblr.com)


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